A Perfect Heritage (75 page)

‘I know. I love you, Lara, I really do.’ He looked at her, then said, ‘There’s something else I want to talk to you about . . .’

‘What’s that?’ Hopes up. Pulse rate up. Don’t even think about it, Lara, don’t don’t . . .

‘I thought we might set up a charitable foundation. The House of Farrell. What do you think about that?’

‘I – I think it’s a wonderful idea.’

‘Oh, good. A lot of big cosmetic companies – certainly the ones with a history – do that. It would raise our profile in a very good way.’

‘It would.’ She felt like crying. ‘Er – what sort of charity would it be?’

‘Well, I thought something to do with gardens.’

‘Gardens?’

‘Yes. Gardens are so good for people. They make them happy. What’s a key part of this Jubilee? Flowers. Flowers everywhere. Imagine this street, imagine most of the streets in the country, without their hanging baskets, the Queen’s barge without that great bank of flowers. I’d like every school – well, every inner-city school – to have its own garden, for the children to grow things, not just flowers but vegetables; it would be so good for them. And we could have an annual award for the best.’

‘You could grow a Farrell rose too,’ said Lara, forgetting her disappointment momentarily, ‘exhibit it at Chelsea.’

‘That’s a wonderful idea. Yes. So you like the idea?’

‘I do. Very much.’

‘I’ll talk to Bianca about it then.’

‘Yes. Do. I think she’ll really like it. It would be the thing you could run as well. As the Farrell family figurehead.’

‘I suppose it could. That’s an idea. It really is.’ He sat contemplating this for a while. Then, ‘Right, well, we’d better get up. We can’t spend the whole evening here.’

He threw the bedclothes aside and Lara looked at his back miserably.

Then he turned to her again. He looked awkward.

‘There is just one other thing,’ he said.

This time her hopes didn’t even rise; they seemed to have slumped permanently.

‘Yes, Bertie. What is it? Can I have the shower first, please?’

‘You can. But – but I was thinking . . .’

‘Yes, Bertie?’

‘I was thinking, well, I was wondering – oh dear, I don’t know what you’re going to say . . .’

He’s found a new marketing manager, she thought.

‘I was wondering . . .’ Long silence. ‘Wondering how you’d feel about – well, changing your name?’

‘Changing my name?’

‘Yes.’

What was this? ‘Why should I?’ she managed. ‘What’s wrong with my name?’

‘Oh dear. I was afraid you’d say that. Oh well, never mind. Go on, then, you have your shower. I’ll make some more tea.’

‘Bertie,’ said Lara, ‘I’m sorry but I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘You don’t? Well, I thought – you being so successful and high profile, you might not want to. I mean an awful lot of women don’t these days. I—’

‘Don’t change their names? Bertie, you really have lost me – when don’t they change their names?’

‘When – well, when they – they get married.’

‘Married!’ Her hopes recovered themselves, lifted, soared. ‘Bertie, are you asking me to marry you?’

‘Yes. Yes, of course I am. I thought you’d realise—’

‘Of course I didn’t realise, you ridiculous, absurd, lovely, lovely man. How could I? Of course I’ll change my name. To whatever you like. But ideally to Farrell.
And
I’ll marry you – if that’s what you want. But you’ve got to ask me properly, Bertie. Come on. Now!’

‘All right.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Lara, I love you. Will you marry me? Please. Just as soon as I’m free? And change your name and yes, Farrell would be best.’

‘Oh Bertie,’ said Lara, laughing and crying at the same time, ‘Bertie Farrell, I’ll marry you, of course I will. I’d love to. Absolutely love to. Thank you!’ She leaned over and kissed him. Several times. ‘Now go and make some tea. And I really don’t see why we can’t stay here all evening.’

‘You know what?’ said Bertie. ‘Neither do I!’

Timothy Benning had also been to a street party: or rather a village green one. He actually had quite a large part to play, being the Grand Old Man of the village. He had personally paid for the maypole that stood on the green and that the village children, dressed as Elizabethans, had all danced round, chaotically but happily, and when they had finished, they all processed over to Mr B as he was known, and each and every one of them handed him a flower.

‘Because a bouquet is made up of single flowers,’ the oldest of them explained, bobbing him a curtsey in what the local dancing teacher had informed them was Elizabethan style, ‘and we wanted to make one up for you.’

They made up a rather disparate bouquet, ranging from roses to buttercups, but lovely nonetheless, and he smiled as he put them into two different vases. One large, one small, when he got home.

He then decided he should have a rest before the evening’s entertainment, which was a concert in the village hall, and lay down on his bed – he was, after all, in his eighties now – with the
Telegraph
and opened it as he always did these days on the births, marriages and deaths column.

And there it was:

Farrell, Lady Athina, b. 1927, widow of Sir Cornelius Farrell d. 2006. Lady Farrell, who continued to play a major part in the running of the cosmetic company she and her husband founded in 1953, died suddenly from a heart attack on Wednesday May 30th. She is survived by her two children Bertram and Caroline and two grandchildren. Private funeral June 8th, family and close friends only.

It was an odd announcement, and oddly cold; there was no reference to where she had died, or her being surrounded by her family.

He wondered, as he often had over the years, how Florence was. If indeed she was still alive: increasingly, old friends were shuffling off their mortal coils, and it was one of the worst things about old age, one was being left, part of a smaller and smaller band. He still missed her and the happy time they had had; she had been a most special person and he had never even considered sharing his life with anyone since. He had never tried to contact her, her rebuttal of him had been so final – but now suddenly he wondered if he was brave enough. She would be eighty, now; surely now she could not object to his writing to her, as an old friend, offering his sympathy at the loss of her oldest and closest friend? Presumably she wasn’t still working; but he wondered if she was still living in that pretty little house of hers. Suddenly he wanted very much to know how she was, and what had become of her . . .

Well, there was no hurry; he would do nothing for a day or two, let the idea simmer. He had great faith in ideas simmering; he found it was an excellent way of making a decision.

The Baileys had stayed in London until the Sunday evening; they too had watched the River Pageant, and gone to a street party, of a sort: a rather grand one, in someone’s garden, or rather in a large marquee, but Bianca and Patrick wanted to be in Oxfordshire for the Sunday, where there were to be more celebrations on their village green, and still more in the evening, high in the hills above the village for the lighting of the beacons. Bianca felt this would actually be the most special occasion of all: watching as the flames moved across the country, two thousand of them, from one peak to the next, lit one by one, to a strict timetable, starting at 10.30 p.m. in the Mall. Progress was swift, their local one timed for 11.16; they were advised to be up in the field by 10.

Bianca was deeply happy; the launch behind her, her decision to resign made (and discussed with Patrick), her heart filled with a slightly self-righteous satisfaction. Patrick had been a little startled when she said she was planning on retiring altogether.

‘Darling, won’t you be bored? Surely you want something to do, less demanding of course, but something?’

And, ‘No Patrick,’ she said, ‘I’m just not like that. I’m an all or nothing person, you should know that by now. Either I work at something totally demanding, or I don’t work at all. There’s no middle way as far as I’m concerned.’

‘Well, I’m not sure it’s wise,’ he said. ‘It’ll be lovely, of course, for me and the children, but aren’t you a bit young to retire? You’re not forty yet, and—’

‘No, Patrick, I’m not. It’s time I learned to live quite differently; I can’t even cook properly, apart from omelettes and stews. I intend to become cordon bleu. And get the house done up. Do you know, I really enjoyed going round Peter Jones the other day, looking at fabrics, and then I’m going to take riding lessons and I’m going to read the entire works of Trollope, and – well, I want to look after you properly, Patrick, won’t you like that . . . ?’

Patrick said hastily that he would, in case she changed her mind, and the conversation was cut short anyway by Milly saying that she’d just had a huge, long conversation with Jayce and that she was going to come for a sleepover next weekend in London, and Lucy was going to try some more new looks on them, and Jayce had lost another kilo, and wasn’t that really, really good?

They agreed it was, just as they agreed that the celebrations in the village were exceedingly good; it was a much better day, clear and sunny, and the games organised for the children including welly throwing and a relay race round the green hugely well attended, as was the dog show, complete with a prize for the dog that looked most like its owner, and later in the day a cricket match.

‘I do wish we could have a dog,’ said Ruby longingly, looking at a vast Newfoundland, ‘just like that one; isn’t he lovely?’

‘We can have a dog,’ said Bianca, smiling at her, ‘of course we can. Not like that one, but maybe a spaniel, or even a lab.’

They all looked at her in astonishment; a dog had always been out of the question, given the complexity of the family’s life already.

‘Did you say we could have a dog?’ said Ruby.

‘I did.’

‘But you’ve always said we couldn’t, that you and Dad were too busy,’ said Fergie.

‘Well, now I’m saying we could,’ said Bianca.

‘But how, why?’ said Milly.

‘We just can. I’ll explain later. Come on, Patrick, they’re coming out of the pavilion now, time you joined them. Got your bat?’

‘He ought to have a new one,’ said Ruby. ‘That one’s an antique, he had it when he was at school.’

‘Well, we can give him one for his birthday, perhaps,’ said Bianca.

‘That won’t help him today.’

Bianca, who knew, given Patrick’s skills on the cricket field, no bat on earth could help him today or any day, said the best way of helping Daddy was to go and cheer him on. And so they did.

And the beacon lighting was wonderful: the muddy field was packed, the village band was playing alternately tunes from Rodgers and Hammerstein to ‘Land of Hope and Glory’ and ‘Rule Britannia’, there was a bar dispensing very warm beer and watery wine, and a few acrobats leaping rather inexpertly through flaming hoops.

‘I bet I could do that,’ said Fergie.

‘You couldn’t,’ said Milly.

‘I could.’

‘Children,’ said Patrick, ‘let me say once and for all, that if I find any of you trying to jump through flaming hoops, every electronic device we have, including your phones, will be confiscated for three months. I mean it.’

‘I haven’t even got a phone,’ said Ruby, ‘so I don’t care. Mummy, please please please can I have a phone? It’s not fair, I’m the only girl in my class who hasn’t got one!’

‘I slightly doubt that,’ said Bianca, ‘but I promise we’ll think about it very hard for your next birthday.’

‘I know what that means,’ said Ruby, ‘you’ll think I can’t have one yet.’

‘Not necessarily . . .’

‘Yes it does!’

‘Shut up, Ruby,’ said Fergie. ‘We’re getting a dog and that’ll be cancelled if you go on like that!’

‘Look,’ said Patrick, ‘they’re getting nearer.’

And they were, the light leaping up from the adjacent hills, high into the darkness: the band switched again to ‘Land of Hope and Glory’ and then it was their turn, and the chosen person – ‘Lucky, lucky him,’ said Fergie wistfully – climbed up on to the platform, held the flaming torch aloft and there was a great roar as the beacon took light, the band played the National Anthem, everyone joined in, and Bianca burst into tears.

‘Not here,’ said Patrick, grinning at her, ‘not in front of the children!’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Darling, I’m afraid you crying has very carnal associations for me.’

‘Oh,’ she said laughing and wiping her eyes, ‘it’s just all so lovely. You can give me a kiss, anyway.’

He bent to kiss her. ‘OMG,’ said Milly and ‘Yuk!’ said Fergie.

They got home after midnight; drank tomato soup and ate garlic bread; then Bianca said, ‘I’ve got something to tell you. Well,
Daddy
and I have got something to tell you.’

The children looked at them.

‘You’re not getting divorced, are you?’ said Milly anxiously. ‘Half my class’s parents are.’

‘Didn’t look like it, up in the field, did it?’ said Fergie. ‘Don’t be a wally.’

‘No, we’re not getting a divorce,’ said Bianca, ‘but – well, I’m going to give up work, stay at home. Be a proper mother.’

There was a long silence: then, ‘Oh, what?’ said Fergie, his voice horrified.

‘You can’t!’ said Milly.

‘You really can’t,’ said Fergie.

‘You really,
really
can’t,’ said Milly.

‘Oh,’ said Bianca uncertainly, ‘I thought you’d be pleased!’

‘Don’t be horrid to Mummy,’ said Ruby.

‘Thanks, Ruby.’

‘What would you do all day?’ said Milly.

‘Well – you know. Cook and—’

‘You’re a rubbish cook,’ said Fergie.

‘Fergie!’ said Patrick.

‘Well, sorry but she is. Her cheese sauce is all lumpy and—’

‘Thanks,’ said Bianca again.

‘What else?’ said Milly. ‘What else would you do?’

‘Well – I thought I’d do the house up. Or rather get it done up. It’s looking very shabby.’

‘That won’t take long.’

Bianca looked nervously at Patrick.

‘Say something kind to me,’ she said.